


Fuck the last rolo, share the Weetabix

by Salomonderiel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, a lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not quite established relationship. Feuilly just wakes up, occasionally, cursing his life and a certain so-called 'friend' called Bahorel, even if said 'friend' is waking up next to him. This morning is one such morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck the last rolo, share the Weetabix

**Author's Note:**

> Meant to be writing something else, but then I got listening to Frank Turner, and his ‘Recovery’ always reminds me of Bahorel/Feuilly for some reason. Gods know why, it’s much more of a Grantaire song. Perhaps it’s the anger inherent in the drumbeat. I don’t know. But anyway, listening to that, this somehow got written.

He woke up to the taste of ash and piss on his tongue. It was the taste of his long-dead dignity.

His head was also demanding paracetamol. His stomach was demanding a toilet to throw up in. His bladder was demanding a loo as well, but for more every-day reasons. Well, upchucking seemed to be becoming a more everyday occurrence as of late... Oh, and his conscience was also reminding him of that cabinet he’d promised to fix by... yes, this afternoon.

But there was an arm draped over his chest, so perhaps everything didn’t suck all that bad.

He lay there, and contemplated the horror that his existence at that precise moment, before groaning and moving to stretch, the first steps to eventually falling out of the bed. In an instant, the arm was gone from his chest, and he was just left with the significant dip in the bed as a reminder that he wasn’t waking up alone.

Before he opened his eyes, the welcome, if not glorious scent of smoke drifted into his nostrils. “You’d better have a smoke for me,” he muttered, threat implicit in his tone, as he dragged himself vaguely upright, leaning against the chipped and battered headboard, damn near crushing his eyes into the back of his head – and why he thought that’d make him feel better _God_ knew – before finally blinking his way into a slightly more awake state.

The room was not yet light, thank fuck. The curtains were still drawn, with only a few rays of dawn – and at least it was still dawn, if he’d lost any hours he’d have killed the man beside him – only those few rays coming through and vaguely lightening room already slightly misty with smoke.

“Ah, I always forget how much of a morning person you are,” Bahorel laughed, head back and lips slightly parted in a smirk as he savoured the smoke drifting from between his lips.

“Give me a fucking fag, and I might let you have a bowl of cereal before I kick you out of here.”

When the hard-ass lawyer man deigned to tilt his head down to Feuilly at that, Feuilly met his gaze with a completely dead one. It was all he could ever manage before, say, midday. “Cereals, eh? Crunchy-Nut, All-Bran or Cocoa Pops?”

“Cornflakes,” Feuilly said, the word coming out as an expletive.

Bahorel raised an eyebrow. “Well aren’t you a classy fucker,” he drawled, but still, he proffered Feuilly the fag all the same. Feuilly let him wedge the thin self-roll between his teeth and sucked deeply. He hissed out the smoke, let his head fall back and thus against the headboard as he hissed the smoke back out between his teeth. They already tasted shit, so what did he care. “Okay,” he muttered, “I _might_ break out the Shredded Wheat.”

“Will you also let me have chocolate Nesquik with that?” Bahorel asked dryly, before snorting and snatching back the cigarette. He pushed the smoke back out through his lips, the cloud blossoming right into the path of the slit of light.

Feuilly let himself glare at Bahorel for a few minutes. Seemingly impervious to the fucking cold spring morning, he, in his unashamed nakedness, was taking up over half of Feuilly’s not exactly big bed, the sheet just about covering his groin and half of one leg, the duvet not touching him entirely. In fact, the duvet had at some point been kicked onto the floor. His tattoos – one or two of them done by Grantaire’s hand – were almost invisible, in the dim light and against his dark skin. And the fag resting on his lips – with his fucking pretentious and fucking delicious fucking expensive tobacco – was staying in place like a pro. His arms were damn guns, and his abdomen resembled a washboard. All in all, he looked disgustingly successful and out of place in Feuilly’s shoebox apartment.

“Don’t you have criminals to lock up and judges to make cry, or some shit?” Feuilly groaned, exasperated, and reaching over to take the fag from Bahorel’s lips again. Bahorel gave no resistance, and Feuilly took advantage of the short time he surely had with the cigarette, sucking for all his worth. “Destroying the self-esteem of poor weedy defence lawyers, fuck like that?”

Bahorel laughed at him, and yes, that was definitely _at_ him. Feuilly could tell because the bastard was laughing. He only ever _laughed_ , truly, at the shit that Feuilly did. “Man, it’s Sunday. Jesus fuck, how much did you _drink_ last night?”

And just for that, Bahorel wasn’t getting this cigarette back. “Why don’t you tell me, you were the one shoving them in my fucking hand,” he muttered. He didn’t need to look to see Bahorel would be grinning. “You’re such a fucker, you know that?” He didn’t need to look to see the leer, either. “Not like that, you cocksucker.”

“Well, if you don’t _like_ me paying for your tab...” Bahorel mused, earning an elbow to the ribs. He grunted – must’ve got a hit in last night, some point – but Feuilly didn’t care. He was starting to feel a familiar burning ache across his back he was sure he’d have Bahorel to blame. “And you’re saying ‘cocksucker’ like it’s a _bad_ thing...”

The only response that deserved was a non-committal mutter, which was exactly what Feuilly gave it. “Perhaps if you just tried to remember that us normal human – you know, ones with limbs of breakable skin and muscle and pasty-white skin that actually bruises and who need daily sustenance other than the blood of our enemies smeared across our knuckles-”

“That’s just you, you pale ginger Scottish fuck-”

“Well, us pale ginger Scottish fucks could do with nights _without_ coal-toned muscle men dragging us out to get into bar fights, get pissed and get _fucked_ every evening, because we have this little thing called ‘manual labour’ that needs doing every day. Sure high-flying douches like yourself would know nothing of that.”

When a few second’s silence followed his small rant, Feuilly opened his eyes again and raised his head back up, looking across to Bahorel. He was being looked at with a very weird expression. “What?” he asked coldly.

Bahorel shrugged, looking away to grab another fag. “You’re being chatty this morning.”

“Fuck off.”                                                                                                                                  

“And I really fucking beg to differ. No such thing as too much of a good thing.”

“Fuck _off_ , yes there fucking _is_ ,” Feuilly groaned, shoving Bahorel, who just laughed again. His laughter fucking _boomed_. It should be illegal, at least until the surrounding had consumed more than the legal limit of alcohol. “If this fucking ‘good thing’ kills me before my time, I hope you get arrested.”

“Save me a space in hell.”

Feuilly raised an eyebrow. It had taken a year of awkward and embarrassing practise to be able to do that, but so very worth it. “And _what_ ,” he asked, “makes you think I’m going to hell?”

With a smirk, Bahorel stabbed his newly-rolled cigarette at Feuilly’s spiked mess of red hair.

Feuilly punched the arm away and shoved his middle finger up. Bahorel grinned, and flicked on the lighter.

“We are, both, _definitely_ hell-bound,” Bahorel mused, lips pressed on the fag he was trying to light. “Might as well enjoy the ride.”

To that, Feuilly hummed an agreement.

Bahorel’s leg knocked against his, as he shifted position. Feuilly’s mind absently drifted to the arm across his chest that morning, and a theory drifted into his mind. Not for the first time, really. Nor really a theory. And this morning, he felt shit enough about his situation in life that he couldn’t quite come up with a reason not to follow it through. “You do _know_ ,” he said, waving the cigarette as if he was making a serious point here, “You don’t have to get me hammered, to get a fuck from me, right?”

The whole damn bed dipped as Bahorel turned to look at him. Feuilly tilted his head to look back. “I don’t?” Bahorel asked, eyes completely clear of any serious emotion.

“Nah,” Feuilly said, also without any strong emotion.

They finished all of their chick-flick moments as they always did – with another drag on their cigarettes.

Sighing out, Feuilly stabbed the butt out on the already pock-marked wood of his bedside table. “Come on, you bastard,” he said, sliding out of the bed and not bothering to grab his boxers as he strode through into the pocket-sized kitchen. “I might even have some Weetabix, if you’re lucky.”

He heard Bahorel chuckle as he followed.


End file.
